my happy poem

On our last day of Writing Class, actually called Freewrite I, we were asked to respond to one of two prompts:

"A recipe for happiness"

or

"When I rule the world..."

It just so happened that the table we sat around was strewn with rubber stamps and colored pencils and ink pads. They were preparations for a later activity, but I'm not one for waiting, when there are colors to be used.


Here's what I came up with.

~~~



Happiness is
perfect stamps
of soaring butterflies
and leafy bent old trees;

Happiness is a smiling sun
shining
on a rubber block

that I
can stamp all over your mopey face -
there'll be none of that
when I rule the world.










~~~

Shared with the real toads. Check out their imaginary gardens for much awesomeness!

illumination

by Rowena Morrill, via

Tall candle's flame
Stilled by the child's hand;
Stories life in smoke:
   each twist of tragedy,
   each curl of comedy,
   each faded resolution,
is time's caress
on the child's cheek,
but those young eyes
pierce blankly
in stout dissolution.




~~~
The image is of a painting by Rowena Morrill, and was the writing prompt; the poem is my response.

About the painting: on the art card that served as my writing prompt, it was named "Candlelight Visions," and it looked as it does in the image above. I did a google search for the painting (so that I could link it in this post, giving credit and all) and found that it is a book cover for "Ghosts I Have Been," by Richard Peck. 

the General's pen

The sleek black enamel was long worn from the grip. Finger-burnished brass from underneath showed the hand's once-hidden habits. The high ungrasped end, where the enamel remained unscathed, reflected a heavy-jowled face in miniature. Squinting, the face could discern its own features. Grey squirreled eyebrows nearly hid the black eyes; That frown seemed deeper, more terminal than before.
A small bell rang in the hall. The office's double doors parted with a thin complaint.
Business, he thought, was ever at hand. He laid the pen down and stood to receive his guest.
The man who entered - the man who must be the renowned Colonel "Got'em" Archer, recently retired - was not what he had expected. This man was more slender than square, more bold than built. No matter. It'd all be sorted out soon enough.
"Colonel Abraham Archer, yes?" He felt the slightest tremble in his hand as he extended it, and prayed the Colonel wouldn't notice. The tension around the other man's eyes didn't lessen, but he grasped the proffered hand.
"I'm retired," the Colonel said, "as you are surely aware. Young Peter here must have heard that from someone. His invitation was from you, yes? It was most intriguing."
Peter sulked behind the Colonel, looking more the cur at being named.
Setting aside his irritation with his recalcitrant son, the man with the pen replied, "Of course, but you never lose your stripes." He waved Peter toward the liquor cabinet and hoped the boy wouldn't embarrass him further. He should have sent someone Raul to fetch their guest. "So, Colonel Archer, I am General - retired, if you will - Rodney DeWitt, Mayor of Asylum, and I would like to personally welcome you to our city."



~~~
The above passage is a rework of a piece I've never been happy with. It's from When Stones Sing, my currently-mostly-dormant novel. A lot has changed. I wrote this from a different perspective originally, not intending to ever give the Mayor his own voice in the story. Hell, I was barely aware of who the Mayor was when I first wrote this scene. (Which was, obviously, one of my issues with writing it that first time. I didn't know who I was dealing with.)

This began as a response to a prompt, in the writing class I'm taking. The instructor had laid a few dozen items out in the middle of our communal table and said: pick an item and write a story about it. I don't know what it was about the pen in front of me that made me think of this conversation between Archer and the Mayor. I didn't know that's where the pen was taking me until I heard the small bell ring, and I suddenly pictured the same ancient doors I'd seen Archer walk through when I first wrote this scene. This entire reworking of this scene was written without a single glance back at the original. I'm pretty amazed at the similarity, now that I've looked (literall, just now) back at the original.

Incidentally, that nickname - "Got'em" - is subject to change. In fact, just consider it a place holder for something much more awesome. 

Against the Stark

Two Cranes Dancing
- all awkward grace and
squawking leaps
against the stark white face
- of winter, darkening.

This is what my father's origami crane makes me think: dark nights in a dark home, warmed by the woodfire stove in the basement, insulated and imprisoned. Then an orange cat tumbles across the modern floor of my apartment, and I'm brought back to now. The cat shreds its prize: a red paper crane whose wings no longer fly.

via

I write.

Thoughts pour
from penstroke to page,
a torrent
of nervous rage.

Thoughts jerk
halted by the broken
link, dying
on lips, unspoken.


~~~

I wrote this in response to a prompt in my writing class. The prompt was "I write..." or "Things I'd like to write about..."

I began this way: I write because I have to. Speech just doesn't work. The connections in my brain aren't hooked up that way. Words come to my pen, but never my voice. Maybe that's why I paint. The poem came after, because I didn't want to describe it directly any more.

the tree and the owl

Chernevog by Keith Parkinson
via

In two parts.

1.
So many winters, so very many bodies.
I wasn't young when they built this dais below me.
- What is she doing here? If she's trying to plant them, she's going about it all wrong. They'll never get roots through that rock, even if she did remove their husks, which she never does. And what does all this have to do with me? She lays them on the dais, waves her arms at me, then leaves. What am I supposed to do - wave a branch and say, "Hey, thanks for all the cadavers"? Really, if she's going to leave them here, she could at least bury them so the animals wouldn't take all that fine fertilizer.
- Say, do you think that owl is eyeballing the body? This could get odorous.

2.
It must be leaf-fall: the human has deposited another corpse. Foul thing, but it keeps the ground-hunters away from my nest, til new-leaf at least. And, it draws prey as any other meat might. So it's useful. Now, to wait...



~~~

Written at writing class, in response to the above picture and the prompt: "What are you doing here?"

character development

Directions:

Start with blank card.
Write - in fat marker - numbers
1 through 6
down the left side.
Leave room
for words.
Place a dot
after each.

Line 1: A name,
but not your own.
Make it up.
Now, pass the card
to the writer
beside  you.

Line 2: A place
someone could live.
It could be nice
or real
or not.
Pass.

Line 3: A hobby.
Or a bad habit.
Your choice.
Pass.

Line 4: A job.
Any job.
Dragon-slayer.
Post-hole Digger.
Chemist.
Pass.

Line 5: A trait.
Personality, that is.
Nothing physical.
Not yet.
Pass.

Line 6: here's your chance.
Physical
appearance.
In a word or three.
No more.
Pass.

Now.
Write the story on the card.



~~~

We did this in writing class yesterday.
Here's what I ended up with:

1. Jakob
2. India
3. Drinking
4. Engineer
5. Pompous
6. Always wore a suit

(Incidentally, there were enough of us in class that we didn't get any of our own additions to the cards, which is why mine is so... bland. My additions were ...well, if I can remember them, I'll write them all down. Later.)

Our facilitator added these prompts to choose from: "I wish I could be like..." or "S/he'd always been that way..."

This is what I wrote:

 Jakob had always worn a suit. Even as an infant, his mother had made him tiny suits, replicas of his father's, and shoved his bubbly body in there. "You must never be less," she told the growing boy, "you must always be more." He followed his father, attending the best university in India, and never regretted his British name.
He chose Chemical Engineering. Something about its precision, and the selective behavior of elements appealed to him. Elements wouldn't bond with just any other element - the conditions had to be met, had to be just right.
At night, he comes home to a crisp white penthouse where the plants are only on TV and the dust knows not to settle. In his fine leather chair he pours himself a scotch, no rocks. Some solutions should not be diluted.

dancer

Everyone knew her as Jade,
from Sharkey's Cabaret.
She wasn't a headliner,
but her quiet ways
didn't matter
when she got on the stage
and swayed.

Her tall black boots
and long, long hair
caught the rhythm of the song,
and all eyes caught
her pale shining skin.
The dollars filled her garter,
and she never said a word.




~~~

Written in writing class, in response to the prompt: "Everyone knew him/her/them as..."

on the reproductive anatomy of centaurs (or: mice and things I get distracted by)

Female centaurs should not have breasts. They - breasts - are a second set of mammary glands, and less useful than the first.

...Or would they be? Maybe, now that I'm really thinking about it, the chest location is the more useful location, given the child's shape. The upright torso would have an easier time getting to the chest than twisting underneath to get to the udders.

So, would the pelvic mammary glands reduced to a basically useless bit of decor, like nipples on human men? Or would they disappear entirely? And if they did disappear, would that anatomical region just look like the horsey version of a barbie doll: blank?

Oh right, I was supposed to be posting a poem. From yesterday. Or even the day before yesterday. Or... well, whatever. My calendar is hiding, probably fearing I'll realize how long it took me to get around to posting a new poem.

Well, I do have one, as it happens. It was written from a picture prompt in writing class. We had quite a few pictures to choose from, and yes, one of them was a busty centauress. I couldn't have possibly taken her seriously. At the same time, I couldn't have whipped out some lines for her because I was too busy taking her entirely too seriously. So I chose a mouse.

via
I had no idea it was a book cover until I found it online. The image we had in class didn't have the writing.
I think I have to read this book now. 

Our prompt was a little different this time (aside from being a picture). We were given a list of statements to complete, e.g., "I am... I wonder... I hear..." and we were to complete them as though we were the character depicted. So, the first to words of each of the following lines, was provided for me, as part of the prompt. Here's what I came up with:

I am the Don Juan of Mice. 

I wonder whether you shall fall at my hands, bested by my skill as a  swordsmouse. 

I hear in high frequency. 

I see in fine detail, but only in certain colors. 

I want to defeat all challengers, large and small.

I save every last penny; Brie is an expensive habit. 

I touch this feather in my hat, for luck. 

I feel like I could conquer the world.

I pretend I am not balding; the hat helps.

I worry about funding my Brie habit. 

I understand there is something odd about you, but that's okay, I don't mind. 

I dream of growing my goatee long enough to braid.

I try everything, at least twice. 

I hope you do not get in my way, because you seem nice. 

So that's not much of a poem, in my opinion.
Here's the poem I took from all that:

I am the daringest of Mice. 

Don't wonder that you shall fall at my paws:
I hear in high frequency, to better hear your cries of defeat. 

I see in fine detail, to better see your loss.

I am the choosiest of Mice.

I'll rescue a fine Brie
while snubbing the lowly Swiss.
One doesn't get to my rank
by slumming, you know.

I am the handsomest of Mice.
The feather in my hat should tell you so.
It's lucky, this mark of a conquerer,
and I touch it to remind myself
that I'm not really balding.
As long as I keep the hat on.

I understand
there is something odd about you,
but that's okay, I don't mind. 

I hope you do not get in my way,
because you seem nice.

~~~

In other words, I got nothing for this one.
But there it is. All done and ready for a chorus.

Shared with the real toads, in their quest for songs. 

brother

He always wore band t-shirts
and baggy shorts.
Or jeans,
because it wasn't always warm
in North Carolina.
They were usually clean
when he put them on.

He always wore Adidas sneakers,
as though he might stumble
into an indoor soccer game
at any  moment.
He never did.
But sometimes
he and his sister would kick the ball
around the weedy yard,
for boredom's sake.

He always had music playing:
the Misfits,
Violent Femmes,
Goldfinger,
Dropkick Murphies.
These were the soundtrack of his life.

He finally cut his curly dark hair,
the day he joined the Army.
For the next eleven years,
he wore OD green and combat boots,
a pair of wings, and a red beret.

via

~~~
Shared with the real toads.

writing class results, week 2

The following entries are my responses to prompts in the writing class I'm taking. The allowed time varies, between eight and fifteen minutes. I don't remember which time went with which prompt, but I can tell you, it isn't directly related to the length of the piece. I've decided to publish them because, honestly, I'm not sure what else to do with them. 

~~~

My earliest memory is of cooties.

Not the imaginary kind.

It was a toy, or game I suppose, that consisted of different colored plastic body parts you could assemble and disassemble. They looked a bit like ants when you put them together.

I remember sitting under the Christmas tree and unwrapping the box. It was the last Christmas my dad spent in the same house with us, but I didn't know that yet.

As I realized what I had unwrapped, I became very excited and wanted to tell everyone about this great present. But I hesitated; having cooties wasn't something to brag about, normally. I dismissed my own concerns. This was family, and they were all Adults to my young mind. Adults aren't mean, I thought, the way kids are. And besides, they probably don't even know what cooties are. This is what I told myself.

So I yelled out, to be heard above the chatter, " I got cooties!" All my excitement on my sleeve.

The rest of the memory fades into the laughter of my family.
It isn't necessarily a pleasant memory. I was such a sensitive child.

~~~

The room I grew up in was pale pink, or maybe yellow, or maybe white. I don't remember; It didn't matter. The windows were more important. They were my portal to the world, when my door closed against intruders, against pain. There was a closet, where I once tried to hide myself, but the air got stale and boring, and it wasn't very appealing the second time. So I sat between the bed and the wall, and felt the evening breeze from the window above. There I was hidden, and free.

~~~

In her mother's kitchen, there was no mention of engine blocks or horse maneuvers. There was no smell of coffee, unless you stood close to the whirring dispenser, between 6:55 and 7:00 am. There were moments, then, she thought she knew the smell of bitter roasted earth. By 7:05, the placating lavender odor her mother always ordered oozed back into the crisp white room, and the mugs, steaming, were overwhelmed. At 7:15, breakfast appeared. At 7:30, it was done, the utensils disposed of, and the fidgeting girl removed. She never saw her mother eat.

Many years later, with axle grease and horse sweat on her hands, she realized that somewhere along the way, coffee had ceased to be bitter.

~~~

She had started in the cold northeast, where everything was measured and your face must always be clean. She found her way west, where the horses didn't gleam, and nobody cared where her father had gone to school.

He'd been all over the territory and down into Old Mexico. Every town, a different name, a new cover, the same result. He always got his target. Or at least, that's how his reputation had it. He had lost a few, if he was being honest about it. But a few in a twenty-five year career didn't seem worth mentioning. 

father

Who were you,
with your joyfully tripping words and scruffy beard,
with your gruff wood-stained hands
and Clint Eastwood smile?

You were there,
in my earliest years, a ghost in the barn,
given shape by hay and cows and lathes,
taking nails from my sweaty clutching hands,
fixing that fence again.

You weren't there,
in your flowing scripted letters
telling tales of horses birthed
and storms weathered.

You were there,
in the house your next wife ruled,
your wit too cutting, your eyes too clouded,
and I don't know
who you are.


~~~

Day 2 of NaPoWriMo, shared with the real toads.
I'm going to let this one speak for itself. I'll say only that it does answer the prompt: to write about the house that built you. 

Keuka Lake

via

I remember those orange trees,
lakeside, catching the breeze.
Chilling, with unease.

I remember that cold, slick water,
swimming with my father.
He said, "No otter."


~~~

I came across the above image this morning, and was reminded of the lakes I grew up near. Specifically, I thought of Keuka Lake, into which (it was rumored) the local hospital dumped its waste. The appeal of swimming in the lake faded pretty quickly as I grew up and became aware of things like "toxic" and "waste". Keuka Lake was surrounded by houses, but if it hadn't been, it would have looked a lot like that image.

~~~

For the real toads' benefit: during the four years I lived near Keuka Lake, I began writing poetry. It was the time in my life that stands out most as the time I began thinking about things outside of a child's simple world.

Our challenge, from the lovely Magaly, was this:

Your poetic mission, if you choose to accept it, is to write a new poem inspired by the first poem, poet or written work that sparked your poetry.

I didn't have much poetic influence at that stage. I didn't start reading any - that I can still recall - until much later in life. I didn't feel influenced by others' poetry until after I started writing my own. I just didn't get it until then. But things like Keuka Lake caused me to think more deeply, and my father's love of words and word games has influenced me deeply, for longer than I can still remember.

So, these are my beginnings. 

don't forget the flowers

"Never forget," whispered the flowers
- golden poppies, the first to bloom -
the spring rain splashing their
satin-saffron petals into streams.

"We'll see you again,
     and again, and again,"
returned the trees,
"in the garden, waking the bees."


~~~
Shared with the real toads.

someone once told me

Someone once told me
that all the stars are gray.
Someone once told me
that trees can't move alone.
Someone once told me
that they couldn't stay away.

Stay away - til the wind dances and your limbs sway -
stay away - til the gray stars sing your heart to home.

~~~

Someone once told me
that all They did was lie -
that other group, of Other people,
people who were Them, not Us.

"Them" had families, had lives and loves;
"Them" lost families, lost lives and loves.
We weren't the only losers.
They weren't the only liars.

Someone once told me that if you could write their story,
you should.
How else will we hear it?
If it doesn't come from Us.

Their story won't be heard, here, in their own voice.
We're too deep in ourselves to listen
to any voice but our own.

So here I am in comfort,
writing stories of a people not-Us,
whose voices we cannot hear,
with words I struggle to recall.

~~~

Two poems, two very different topics, one prompt: "Someone once told me..."

From Freewriting I, 18 March 2015.

Shared in the imaginary garden with real toads.

writing class, day one: on my way here

Today was the first day of a writing class I'm taking. I've needed this. It's my excuse to write when I feel like I don't have time to write. Our first prompt today (of four) was to complete the thought "on my way here I was thinking..." or "I'm taking this class because..."

Here's what I came up with: 



On my way here I was thinking
but then the rain pattered on my nose
and I chilled -
Hands in pockets, but no: These pants have too-small pockets
so I took them out and clasped them.

On my way here I was thinking, but then
I walked into one of those bathroom conversations
- the ones women have loudly over stall doors when no one else is looking.
They were talking about "Mickey" and wondering if the name meant he was gay.
They were young, and trendy enough to be confused
by "the car with the bling painted on it" that they could see in the parking lot outside.

On my way here I was thinking
but then I passed my lover on his way up the road,
and now my lips smell like beard oil,
and it's very distracting.


~~~
I'm sharing this over at the imaginary garden's Tuesday platform, too.



*In case you're wondering, the bling-bedecked car is one of our local art cars. It's a thing.